


Letters to Marco

by YouMeAtNope



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Heart Break, M/M, letter writing, trans!marco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 11:06:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3408263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouMeAtNope/pseuds/YouMeAtNope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sending letters to Marco seemed to be something that I had been doing for as long as I could remember, but I never expected him to reply.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Marco

**Author's Note:**

> As per usual, my tumblr is llawlietamane.tumblr.com/ if you'd like to ask me questions, or give me any suggestions.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "To Marco,
> 
> Ugh sounds too basic, right?"

_To Marco,_

_Ugh sounds too basic, right? Heh... Honestly, I've never done this sort of thing before. Armin said I should do this, that I should write to you to get things off of my mind. Usually, the kid annoys the hell out of me; but the mushroom's got a point._

_Anyway... I thought this would be easier than it is right now. But, here goes. Marco, I miss you. I know I sound stupid, and probably clingy as hell for saying so, but that is exactly how I feel. I just feel empty? Literally, I cannot breathe properly when I think about you; and I'll either be two seconds away from murdering Jaeger or bawling my eyes out._

_It's not the same without you here... by my side. You'd been out there for days, so we think. Your gear was gone, so fuck knows what happened to it... And, well, something terrible happened to you, Marco. When I got to you..._

_Sorry, I keep getting tears on the paper. Your body, Marco. Some of your face, your arm... If my memory serves me correctly; then I think some of your leg had gone too. Those titan bastards! No one knew where the hell you were and then when I found you... Well, the woman there asked me to identify your body - and I didn't want to believe it was you._

_I still don't want to believe that it was you, honestly. They say that the first stage is denial; and boy, are they right. I don't want you to be dead, Marco. I just... can't allow you to be dead. If only I could have been there; been there to protect you. You deserved to be protected, Marco. I should have been there._

_Ugh this is pointless. You probably won't even see this, so what's the point?_

 

 

 I hissed in frustration as I swiped at the few objects that lay on the desk before me, sending them off onto the floor with a heavy clatter. My hands both clenched into fists and I pressed my knuckle against my mouth, biting down to prevent a sob from escaping my lips as my stomach churned in response to the rush of sadness that flooded through my veins.

It was then that I slammed my fist down against the heavy wood, probably hurting myself much more than the bulky piece of furniture. Pain shot up through my arm and I forced my eyes shut as I bit harder at my knuckle, drawing blood almost immediately. The liquid left a foul taste in my mouth, and my senses were assaulted by the metallic taste that lingered on my tongue.

Maybe I shouldn't have listened to Armin - maybe I should have just pulled the stick out of my ass and moved on. So many people had died; how was Marco any different?

_He meant something to you, that's why it was different_.

A weak, almost pathetic sigh escaped me and I merely pulled my hand away from my mouth as I felt blood trail down my heated flesh. Marco was gone - I knew that, but it didn't mean that I accepted that particular fact. The kid was my _best friend,_ and I was fucking entitled to mourn the death of such a brilliant person that held such a place in my life.

 Tears threatened to spring from my eyes, my skin red and heated as I pressed the heel of my palms to my eyes, almost sobbing into my flesh as I sobbed into my hands. My body was racked with sobs as I sunk down onto my ass, back leaning against the wood of my desk as I pulled my legs close to my chest; knuckles stinging as a wet liquid slid down the split skin of my knuckles.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh I know this is a very short chapter, but it is 1am and I'm struggling. I'm thinking of making this like some sort of reincarnation au, where Jean constantly writes letters to Marco; saying how he wishes he was still alive.


	2. The future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dear Marco,  
> I've never really understood why I know you, but I do. Things have changed, and nothing is the same as it used to be... I think you'd like it though."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may or may not get a little confusing, (hopefully it won't). But there is going to be a large time skip to the present day.

_You used to make me feel like I could walk on water_  
_Now most nights I'm just sinking down_  
_You're the reason why I can't listen to the same songs I used to_

Real Friends - [I've Given Up On You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K_pLV94telg)

* * *

 

_Dear Marco,_

_I've never really understood why I knew you, but now I do. Things have changed, and nothing is the same as it used to be... I think you'd like it though. The sky seems brighter, and the walls aren't here anymore... Well, I don't think they are; I've just never seen them here. For years since being here, I'd wake up every morning with your name upon my lips, and the vision of a boy with pale skin, freckles, dark hair and matching brown eyes; the very same you had. I can't quite remember when the majority of dreams and flashbacks started... roughly when I was fourteen, I think; but my parents always seem cautious when I bring up the subject._

_The thing is, Marco, I haven't changed; I never have. I've watched my family die around me, I've watched myself die countless times and then I'll be floating around on a different plane for God knows how long. It's just darkness forever, and it never really seems to end. I never really know how old I get when I start thinking of you, when I start understand that my dreams and flashbacks aren't entirely false._

_My mom has more or less banned me from saying your name anymore, and she tells me that you don't exist. "You're not fourteen, anymore, Jean-boy!" It's pathetic, really. The amount of councilors I've been sent to in these various lifetimes has been rather... depressing. I refuse to drop the fact that you exist, but I never bring the subject up anymore. I still write you letters, almost religiously; and maybe I will until I find you again._

_There's a kid at my school called Connie, and I'm pretty sure he's the Connie. Maybe he isn't, maybe I'm reading too much into things - but I'm just tired of being alone, Marco. It's been years... I haven't been here for all of that time though. Most of the time I'd wait until the age you were when you died... I'd wait until the day I found you to finally end it all. As time has gone on, I'd like to think that I've become more... skillful when it comes choosing the way I end it and leave the Earth._

_Anyway, you don't need to hear about this. I don't even know why I brought it up._

_Hurry up and find me already, Marco. I'll be waiting, like always._

_Yours, Jean._

 

 

 I stared down at the letter, holding my cigarette between my lips as I folded the page in half and slipped it into an envelope. I'd waited for years for a reply from Marco, but it never came. I'd say I hated him for it, but I could never bring myself to hate him. It wasn't his fault that he didn't receive my letters, and even if he did; he probably never remembered me. Maybe he came back like I did, but went by a different name; maybe he lived in a entirely different place.

 Well, wherever he was, I just hoped he was okay. I hoped he was smiling, doing something he loved and - well, I just hoped that he wasn't missing any body parts.

If it was Jaeger, I probably would have laughed; but even I had my limits. To laugh at someone for losing a limb was a pretty sick thing to do. In another lifetime I would have laughed, but the past was always in my mind when I came of age; and I remembered how things were, how people were slaughtered day after day.

The thing about the future was that there were so many different types of technology that meant you could stay in touch with people around the world - but this technology also had its down side. The television was something that I grew to love, and I grew to hate certain aspects of it at the same time. The news was something I hated, as almost every day people would sit for hours on end, speaking of how people were murdered, raped and assaulted.

The world was still a sick place of injustice, and it always would be. I was honestly sickened of the people that were mentioned in the news, as they'd usually be some form of prick that decided to ruin the lives of a few or the lives of many. At least back then papers and face-to-face meetings seemed to be the only way to find out what was happening in the world beyond and within the walls. Marco wouldn't have enjoyed that part of the future, and I wouldn't really blame him if he agreed with me. The world was a disgusting place, but it _did_ have its benefits.

 

Yet another sigh escaped my lips as I blew the smoke from my cigarette past my lips, feeling the vapors and nicotine slowly begin to calm my frazzled nerves. My eyes closed for a few moments before I stood up and sat on the window sill, staring out at the ocean as it waved in the distance. The sight was beautiful, but I always felt so incredibly lonely as I took in a sight that I knew so many of my friends from all that time ago never had the chance to witness with their own two eyes.

I recalled a time when I heard Armin and Eren talking about the ocean, speaking of the brilliant blues and temperatures of the liquid; and how the colours and temperatures changed depending on the location. At the time I thought they sounded daft for wanting to see water, but after seeing the ocean for myself... Well, I wish they could have been with me to see it. I can't remember the first time I saw the ocean, but I remember that in my current life I truly witnessed its beauty.

I first saw the ocean at a young age after a vacation with my parents, but after moving to California all of my memories seemed to flood back. My parents told me that we'd be moving near the beach and the ocean when I was fourteen. My parents stayed at the new house, positioning all of the furniture from our old place; and they told me to go out and get to know the town.

I slipped my phone into the pocket of my shorts, having only a little battery but enough to last me if it was an emergency. My plan was to visit the beach and watch the ocean for a while, but once I was there, I couldn't bring myself to leave.

The beach was more or less vacant, and few people seemed to be there as it was a week day and most people had school or work. So, there I was, walking down the concrete steps to reach the white sand. I initially kept my gaze to the floor, staring at the sand and assortment of shells that laid against the white grains; but then I was growing nearer to the sea, and I could hear the waves lapping at the sand and rocks. The waves occasionally struck the rocks in such a way that I was reminded of the day that we had to evacuate the city, the water lapped at the sides of the large wooden boat that would transport us all to a safer city within the walls. People tried to jump across the large gap between the boat and the wall after the guards explained how there were too many people on board.

I watched as people flew towards the boat with outstretched arms, hoping to reach the over side - but they only fell. They fell down the gap between the boat and the wall, and plummeted down into the freezing cold water below. They didn't know how to swim, no one did. Swimming was something that none of us were taught, because swimming wouldn't save anyone from the titans.

 

I slowly stared up and across at the sparkling turquoise water; and felt my breath catch in my throat. I fell to my knees like a sack of shit and bawled my eyes out as my memories returned to me. Marco, the titans, life behind the walls; the deaths of everyone.

My heart pounded in my chest and my pulse thrummed through my ears, and the waves crashing against the shore spun through my mind; making my head spin. I pressed my palms to my eyes as I sobbed into my hands, feeling my hot breath fan out against my flesh as I screamed out into the sea. The sound echoed through my ears and I was sure that I caught the attention of a few passers by, and at that moment I honestly didn't care.

Unfortunately, my mother always recalls that day as the day I changed. I came home with puffy red eyes, skimmed knees and bruised knuckles from hitting one of the many boulders positioned by the ocean. She never found out what happened that day, neither did my father, and I never told them what happened. I babbled about Marco, Mikasa, Eren and Armin; everyone, really. My parents thought I was insane, thought that someone must have beat the shit out of me while I was out; but I never told them the truth.

That night I didn't sleep, I stayed up into the early hours writing down my memories, trying to recall every single name, every single moment; and it took hours - and I knew that it still wasn't the whole of it. The paper eventually ran out after a few hours, as did the few pens I had in my room. Food and water became the last of my priorities and I set to writing down all of my memories, that I had obtained since my visit to the beach, down on paper.

I thought about running away, but in my heart I knew that running away wouldn't solve anything. I was thankful that my parents had arranged most of my furniture, as it meant that I didn't have to do so much of it by myself. As my memories faded, and the flashbacks stopped, I then took to putting some of my things away; hearing the occasional piece of furniture being dragged across the floor, my mother shouting in reply to tell my father to "Stop ruining the goddamn floor!" My mom knocked every once in a while as the hours went on, but they soon went to bed around one or two, having finally settled down and left the rest of the furniture for the morning.

 

My cigarette hissed beneath my fingers, causing me to flinch as the hot ash burned the tips of my fingers. I squeezed the butt in my palm, curling my fingers around the filter and remaining ash to put it out.  _What a waste, I only had a couple of drags._ The state of my cigarette couldn't be helped, there was no use crying over it; so I brushed off the ash and filter into the small trash can by the side of my desk, hearing the plastic bag inside crinkle slightly. After reluctantly pushing myself off of the small window sill, I then gripped the envelope I was holding tight in my palm, and wiped my other hand against my thigh as I wiped the remaining specks of ash from my skin.

A small shiny piece of paper sat on the centre of my desk, and I picked it up, flipped it over and sighed as I realised there was a single stamp left on the sheet.  _Note to self: Remind mom to pick up more stamps._ With that thought in mind, I peeled the stamp off of the sheet and secured it to the top right hand corner of the envelope; making sure it was perfectly aligned before my eyes skimmed over the poorly written handwriting on the centre of the envelope.

 

_Marco Bodt,_

_Number 2,_

_Wall Rose Cottage_

_Jinae._

_c:_

 

The tiny smiley face was my own personal scream for help, as I frequently questioned whether there was much point in me sending Marco letters anymore; considering I had never received one in reply in all of the years I had sent them. I refused to give up hope though. I had sent Marco letters for years and years, and never received a single one from him in return; but I was never going to stop sending him letters.

_One of these days, I'm going to give up._ I honestly didn't want to give up the idea of finding Marco, and the fact that I constantly remembered him day in and day out made me wonder if it was fate for the two of us to meet - that constantly remembering him throughout my many lives was so I could remember what he looked like; so I could find him. Perhaps the reason I remembered him so much was because it was my duty to find him. It was as if I was in an episode of Supernatural, where I was sent through different times to find Marco and realign the world. That was honestly my own explanation for things.

I'd been through so many different lifetimes that the mere thought of Marco was enough to make my blood pressure raise, and also make me want to vomit. I wanted to hate him, I wanted to find him and ask him why I was forced to return to the Earth time and time again; like a ghost with unfinished-fucking-business. That's what Marco was to me - _unfinished business_. I honestly felt that finding him was my only bet at being able to finally rest. But I didn't want to think of him as unfinished business. I wanted to think of him as a courageous soldier; I wanted to remember him as the sixteen year old that was once my best friend.

_He still is my best friend._

I didn't want to find him, only to have my image of him tainted by how the new world had changed him - changed us. We would be different people. There's so many stories, and online forums out there, that explain why you should never meet your idols; or catch up with someone you used to know, because they would have changed, and you can't expect someone to be the same person that they were before. _Don't allow yourself to be disappointed_.

Pins and needles shot through my legs and feet as I hobbled towards my bedroom door to move downstairs to the kitchen. The carpeted floors felt weird beneath my feet, as my limbs still felt heavy with a feeling that I can only describe as television static. Thankfully, the pins and needles had gone by the time I reached the kitchen, and the tiled floor felt cool against my bare feet as I froze for a few moments, lowering the letter in my hand as I spotted my mom sitting in front of the window; her back facing me. The envelope suddenly felt heavy in my hand, and I knew that I'd get in a lot of shit if my mom saw who the letter was addressed to.

She slowly turned her head to gaze over at me from her seat in front of the window, a magazine in her hand as she fanned at herself; freshly painted nails glistening under the blinding sunlight that peaked through the windows. I took to hiding the envelope behind my back, just in time, may I add. My mom raised a single eyebrow at me as she wiped her forehead with a damp washcloth; doing her best to wipe away the thin sheen of sweat that coated her skin.

 

"T-Too hot outside?" I asked, my voice weaker than I was expecting. All my mom did was nod in reply, continuing to fan herself with her magazine before she turned around; giving me enough time to slip my envelope into the pile of other letters upon the counter that needed to be mailed. She soon pushed her chair back, holding a empty glass of what I gathered to be Martini and Coke. I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to seem casual as I watched my mom, leaning against the counter as she set her glass down and opened up a bottle of Martini. My skin prickled as I nodded down at the pile of letters that needed to be mailed.

"Hey, mom?"

"Yes, sweetheart?" Was her soft reply, as she poured the liquid into her glass; the silence between the two of almost being almost unsettling as the alcohol trickled into the glass. "Uh, I'm going out in a minute... Want me to drop off this mail for you while I'm out?" My voice seemed much stronger this time - more normal, and I waited for my mom to reply. It took her the time to grab the cooled bottle of Coke and pour the soda into her glass before she finally replied.

Once again, she turned to face me; a small smile growing on her plump lips, the corners of her eyes creasing slightly as she nodded. She moved to the side as she placed her glass down onto the counter beside me, put a hand on my shoulder and leaned in, forcing me to bend down as she pressed a kiss to the top of my head. _Anything to make you feel young again._   "You're such a good boy, Jean." I rolled my eyes as she moved her hand away, allowing me to stand up to my full height as she then whispered,

"Don't let your father know that you're a momma's boy, he'll never forgive me." Her tone was meant to be teasing, and I merely groaned at her in reply. The woman was absolutely ecstatic that I was such a momma's boy - not that I _was_ a momma's boy, I just thought that it was important to love my mom because she did everything that she could to make sure everyone else was happy. She needed to be treated the same. "Yeah, yeah, I've heard it all before." I rolled my eyes again, and my mom saw this time; and playfully jabbed my arm as I picked up the pile of mail. 

After reaching up to grab my keys, I traipsed to the front door, slipped on my low top white converse and shouted a goodbye to my mom; listening to her calling back a gentle, "Stay safe, honey." 

Now, my car wasn't originally my car - it was my grandfather's. It was a 7th generation Honda Civic sedan, and God; did I love that car. She was originally an eyesore to me, but it didn't take long for me to fall in love with the thing. It was a deep silver, and I can still remember how my grandfather would pay me ten dollars to wash the car for him - frequently telling me that it'd one day belong to me. I rolled my eyes, and threw countless tantrums over the car; stating my blinding hate for the piece of scrap metal.

I remember my grandfather seeming rather sad every time I said that to him, and he did all he could to convince me of what a lovely car it was.

"She'll run like a dream, Jeanbo."

"You'll learn to love her."

"Look at that paintwork - she's like a bullet. You like guns and bullets, don't you, Jeanbo?"

 

It didn't matter what he said about that darn car, I never wanted it - that was until my grandfather died and the car was going to be sent away to be crushed or sold on. A seedy car dealership guy wanted the car, and I knew how much that fucking car was worth - and he wanted to sell it on for two hundred tops. I had the car in the garage for two years, not being able to drive it at all - because I was twelve when my grandfather died. It stayed in the garage like a symbol of depression - the past that I couldn't escape. My dad wanted me to sell it, said that I could use the money I received on college or a "Nest egg for a rainy day."

I personally didn't give a shit about that car, because every time I looked at that car or even thought about it; I'd remember my grandfather. I was finally persuaded to selling it when I was fourteen - and I remember standing out of the front of our old house, keys in hand as my dad stood beside the sedan with the guy that was hoping to buy it. I still remember the smell of soap and leather cleaner, as my dad had decided to clean the car before selling it on. After cleaning it, I remember asking him if it'd even run properly - and all he did was run his hand along the dashboard and smile as he said, "Oh, she'll run alright."

Fourteen year old me didn't understand how the car would run after a few years of not being used, but my dad was adamant that it'd run. I couldn't quite agree with him. But as my dad lifted the hood, and spoke of prices, I found myself gaping down at the shining metal within; metal that wasn't there before. The engine was brand new, and merely coated in a thin sheen of dust. The engine wasn't the same one I had help my grandfather put together, and I may have hated the car; but I loved seeing how every aged part of it brought back memories for my grandfather.

 My heart sunk as I pictured him, smiling gleefully as he held up a spark plug and told me how he had stolen it from the town drug dealer when he was seventeen; not much older than myself. It was almost a coming of age test where he lived. People would go to the large white house that overlooked the town, and as the men grew older, they'd each step forward to steal something from the house.

My great uncle stole an expensive Chinese vase, his sister - the only woman - stole a Tiffany lamp, and my grandfather stole a fucking spark plug from the guy's car. Of all of the things he could have stole, and he chose a spark plug. His whole family and almost every man in the neighbourhood questioned his decision; and my grandfather would reply, "The bastard loved his car."

He stole the one thing that he knew he'd be remembered for, and that was his plan all along. Of course, he was later beaten to a bloody pulp by the guy, but he was _still_ remembered.

 

It was then that I knew that my grandfather had replaced the parts in the darn car so I'd take the bloody thing. But I didn't want the car because it had a couple of new parts, I took the car because of the sentimental value, because my grandfather's car was brand new when he got it; and the knew parts had to be changed over time, merely adding to the sentimental value. He gave the car to me, so I'd also create memories like he did.

I kept the car, but had barely added to the sentimental value of it. My hands gripped the steering wheel tighter as I rested my head against the leather; eyes shut and palms sweating. I eventually turned my head to the side as I eyed the pile of letters that sat on the passenger seat. The palms of my hands itched as I inched my hands towards the pile and grabbed them; soon pulling the keys from the ignition as I un-clipped my belt and opened the door.

The sun shone brightly, making me wince as I meandered towards the familiar blue mailbox a few feet from the car. I posted the letters one by one, keeping Marco's letter till last. I lifted the envelope to my lips as I pressed a kiss to the paper, soon moving to post the rectangle that I held so close to my heart; as I did with all of the letters I tried to send to Marco.

"Hopefully this one is more successful." I whispered as I watched the letter slip inside the heavy metal box, and listened to the metal door slam shut.


End file.
